


baby, it's you

by absolutefuckery



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: (but like. only a little bit.), Friends to Lovers, Humor, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25547386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absolutefuckery/pseuds/absolutefuckery
Summary: “What about—hmm, oh, that guy!” Sylvain gestures towards a well-built brunet headed in the general direction of the training grounds. “He’s all... fight-y. Probably trains a lot. That’s—is that a turn on for you?”Okay, yeah, maybe it is, but the mere thought of discussing his ‘turn ons’ with Sylvain (who is one of them) makes Felix want to fling himself into the pond.-Fortunately for exactly no one, Sylvain’s new pet project is finding Felix a date.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 27
Kudos: 355





	baby, it's you

“You’re sure there’s no one I can set you up with?” Sylvain asks, for perhaps fifth time in the past half-hour.

“ _Positive_ ,” Felix grinds out, delivering a particularly brutal strike to the training dummy in front of him.

He’s being remarkably patient, hitting the dummy and not Sylvain. For that alone, he’s practically a saint. Felix Fraldarius, Patron Saint of Dealing With Bullshit.

Sylvain Gautier—Patron Jackass of Bullshittery—has the audacity to look thoughtful, leaning forward on his elbows and letting out a contemplative noise. Bastard. He shouldn’t even be at the training grounds, he isn’t training. He never trains. He’s just come here to laze around on the sidelines and watch Felix work, which would be distracting even if he weren’t peppering him with inanities.

Fortunately for exactly no one, Sylvain’s new pet project is finding Felix a date.

It all started about a week ago, after one too many suggestions to ‘go and pick up girls’ prompted Felix to (very calmly) yell that he wasn’t _interested_ in women. It’s something he’s said before, multiple times, but there must have been something in his face or the sheer exasperation in his voice that made Sylvain finally understand that his preferences lie elsewhere. There was a quiet moment, realization dawning like the last puzzle piece finally being pushed into place, and then Sylvain beamed at him and asked if there were any guys he liked, and if Felix wanted Sylvain to ‘wingman’ for him. He hasn’t stopped asking since.

Could be worse, Felix supposes. At least he’s being supportive—even if his support is slowing driving Felix closer and closer to homicide. 

“Really?” Sylvain drawls, unaware or unconcerned with the danger he’s in. “You’re not interested in _anybody_?”

Felix stabs the training dummy. “ _Not,_ ” another stab, “ _Anybody_ ,” one more stab, this time hard enough to get his sword stuck. That’s… actually kind of impressive, considering it’s a blunt practice sword. Felix grits his teeth and pulls it out, just to brandish it at Sylvain. “Besides, even if there was, I wouldn’t want you sticking your nose into it.”

Sylvain gasps, clutching his chest in mock offense. “Excuse you! If this nose knows anything, it’s romance. I’m a great wingman! I’ve done wonders for His Highness.”

Felix almost laughs at that. Almost. “You mean that girl who tried to kill him last week?”

“Not my fault, the man went off-script.” Sylvain gives an elaborate shrug. “He’s doing well under my tutelage but he’s not ready to freestyle yet.”

“You’re the worst. Have I told you that?”

“Every day,” Sylvain says, smiling genuine and obnoxiously fond.

It’s almost sundown—sooner or later, he’ll be whining that they should head over to the dining hall to get something to eat. The golden light of early evening hits Sylvain well, makes his hair shine vibrant copper and brings out the warmth in his brown eyes.

It’s irritating. And it’s not helping with Felix’s whole Sylvain Thing.

The ‘Sylvain Thing’—which is hardly even a thing, really—is a stupid, unfortunate childhood crush that has stupidly and unfortunately come back to haunt Felix in full force since they arrived at the officer’s academy.

Felix got crushes easily as a kid, back when he was naïve and trusting enough to hand his whole heart over to anyone who treated him kindly. They were silly little things; it’s not like they meant anything. He’d nursed an embarrassing crush on Dimitri through much of their childhood before the rebellion and subsequent death of any trust between them, and he’d even briefly entertained the idea of marrying Ingrid when they were seven, after she told him his spinning sword move was “pretty cool.” So of course he’d had a crush on Sylvain, who was smart and funny and never laughed at him when he cried.

When he first sees Ingrid and the Boar again, it’s just… seeing Ingrid and the Boar. All of the complex emotions that stem from growing and grieving together are there, of course, but nothing extending beyond that. Nothing romantic, at least.

Seeing Sylvain again, on the other hand, is. It’s different.

It’s different because Sylvain has gotten tall and broad and devastatingly handsome in a way that must be a purposeful attack on Felix, specifically. It’s different because Felix stops dead in his tracks when he first spots Sylvain in the dorm hallway, leaning extravagantly against the wall in his terrible uniform that he can’t ever wear properly because he’s too busy being ‘artfully disheveled.’ It’s different because Sylvain looks at Felix—who is not the same boy he made promises with as a child, who has grown cold and callous with tragedy—and he still grins that familiar grin and sweeps him into a hug, still grinning even as Felix wriggles out of his arms and calls him a fool.

So anyway, the crush is back. For now.

Felix will get over it. He always gets over these things. And he should be able to get over it quickly, considering that Sylvain is so dedicated to being on his worst behavior, all the time.

Speaking of which, here he goes again.

Sylvain hops up from his seat, grinning entirely too wide for Felix’s liking. “I have an idea.”

“No.”

“So, you’re not interested in anyone right now, right?” Sylvain barrels on, because fuck Felix, apparently. “That’s okay! Because we’re gonna _find_ a guy for you!”

Felix takes back what he thought earlier about Sylvain looking nice in the light of sunset. He looks like an asshole and Felix is considering bludgeoning him to death.

“We will be doing _no such thing_ ,” Felix seethes.

Sylvain—a man with no survival instincts—pats Felix on the shoulder, completely unfazed. Very bold of him to get within bludgeoning distance when Felix is clearly in a bludgeoning mood. Even bolder of him to take Felix’s sword and go to hang it up for him, humming all the while.

“It’s happening! It’s happening. Don’t fight it, Felix,” Sylvain says, as though that will placate him, as though Felix isn’t going to fight this kicking and screaming all the way. “I’m gonna be the best wingman you never wanted.”

__________

In spite of protests, it _does_ start happening. This is as annoying as it is inevitable—Sylvain’s most ridiculous plans are generally the ones he’s most passionate about and goddess forbid Felix should ever get in the way of his best friend being an idiot. Even when they were kids, things usually went like this. Felix might complain, but in the end he’ll still follow Sylvain anywhere, especially in and out of trouble.

Fortunately though, for now the dreaded ‘wingman-ing’ is mostly just Sylvain pointing out random guys around the monastery and asking if Felix thinks they’re attractive (and Felix saying no). Which is… dumb, but not catastrophic.

It’s just _all the time_.

When they’re training, between classes, during stable duty, when they go to town, when they’re in the dining hall, it _never_ stops. Sylvain is a man on an incredibly stupid mission. Felix might be impressed, if he didn’t want to throttle him.

Of course, none of this has made the crush go away. No, that would be too easy, seeing as Felix is physically incapable of catching a fucking break.

So here he is, sitting in the dining hall with Sylvain on his side, listening to him prattle on and just letting it happen. And he always sits too close, close enough that Felix can feel the warmth radiating from his body and smell that awful cologne he wears. Felix hates the cologne.

He hates it so much that he gets distracted breathing it in and only realizes Sylvain’s been trying to get his attention after he says his name for what must be the third or fourth time.

“Felix—”

“ _What_ ,” Felix snaps, knuckles going white around his fork. He glances down at his plate to find that he’s accidentally stabbed his dinner to death. Rest in pieces.

“I was asking what you think of him,” Sylvain gives a discreet nod in the direction of a guy standing in line to get food. “He your type?”

The guy is about medium height, with an athletic build. His hair is dark and a bit long, pulled out of his face in a ponytail. For some reason, Felix instantly dislikes him.

“Not even close,” he says, stabbing his food again for good measure.

Sylvain looks genuinely affronted. “What? Seriously? I thought he was cute.”

Felix dislikes the guy even more knowing Sylvain thinks he’s attractive. Also—Sylvain likes guys? Felix didn’t know that; or at least, he didn’t know it for sure. He’d always been half convinced that was just a rumor. Hmm. Felix is going to tuck that away and not think about it, or maybe think about it a lot, all the time, for the next few weeks.

“You have bad taste,” Felix deadpans, partially because it’s true, but also just to hear the offended noise Sylvain makes in response.

“I need a second opinion,” he says, then turns towards Ingrid, who’s been eating—meaning, she’s completely tuned out this conversation. 

“Ingrid,” he says, careless even as fixes him with that specific withering stare she reserves for when someone’s interrupted her meal. “Isn’t that guy cute?”

Ingrid does not drop her fork. She lowers it to her plate, very slowly, which is arguably more foreboding.

“ _Sylvain_ ,” she starts, voice rising in her classic wind-up for a lecture. Felix isn’t sure what the lecture will be about, but goddess knows she’ll think of something and Sylvain will probably deserve it.

“Just answer the question! Please,” Sylvain adds, all puppy-dog eyes. “For science.”

Ingrid sighs deeply, makes meaningful eye-contact with Felix, and turns her attention to man in question.

Immediately, her mouth twists and she shakes her head, “No.”

Figures. If he was looking for someone to agree with him, Sylvain shouldn’t have asked her. Ingrid doesn’t like boys. (Everyone knows this except Ingrid.)

Sylvain throws up his hands. “Oh, come on!”

Mercedes, who’s been sitting across from Ingrid, turns in her seat to get a look at the guy. Upon seeing him, she presses a hand to her mouth to cover a soft giggle.

“He kind of reminds me of Felix,” she says, cheerful as ever. “Don’t you think?”

_Really?_ Felix doesn’t see the resemblance. First her brother and now this—why is Mercedes always trying to compare him to other people? While Felix is busy trying to figure out whether or not to be insulted, Sylvain bursts out laughing, a little too loud.

“What? No way,” he says, between his chuckles. He sounds a bit nervous, which is weird. “Felix is—they’re totally different.”

“If you say so,” Mercedes intones, fixing him with one of her usual placid smiles. For some reason that effectively shuts Sylvain up for the rest of dinner.

He doesn’t speak again until they’re on their way out of the dining hall, after they’ve finished eating and put away their plates. Before they can leave, Sylvain catches the edge of Felix’s sleeve, stopping him in the doorway.

“One more?” he asks, a little sheepish.

Of course it’s this again. Felix should say no and put an end to this tomfoolery, but Sylvain’s quietness for the latter half of dinner was vaguely troubling. Silence from Sylvain generally means he’s thinking too hard, getting lost in his own head, which is never a good thing. So, Felix will indulge him. For now.

“One more,” Felix agrees with a sigh.

Sylvain lights up (typical) and Felix’s heart stutters foolishly in response (unfortunately also typical).

“Okay,” he says, pointing across the dining hall about as inconspicuously as someone can, you know, point across a room. “What about him?”

For a moment, Felix just stares at Sylvain’s hand—the bend of his fingers, the few faded freckles dotting the back of his palm. His hands have gotten big, just like the rest of him. They’re slightly calloused but they look softer than Felix’s, probably because he doesn’t train as much. Terrible. Felix scowls at Sylvain’s hand and absolutely does not imagine holding it.

“Who— _fuck off, Sylvain_ ,” Felix’s scowl sets harder when he sees that the guy his hand is pointing towards is none other than that von Aegir prick from the Black Eagles. Sylvain practically cackles at his disgust, doubling over with laughter. Felix is never indulging him again. “Absolutely not.”

Once he’s caught his breath, Sylvain bats his eyelashes in an exaggeration of innocence that doesn’t match the sharp line of his smirk. “What? Don’t like redheads?”

Ha. If only.

“Not that one,” Felix snaps, and he’s out the door with Sylvain trailing after.

__________

Seeing as Sylvain seems dead set on continuing this ludicrous little charade, Felix sets down a few ground rules.

Rule Number One: No asking him about guys they know personally. This rule was established after Sylvain asked Felix if he thought Seteth had quote-unquote ‘DILF Energy’ and Felix refused to speak to him for three days.

Rule Number Two: Sylvain can only ask for Felix’s opinion on five guys per day. No more, preferably less. This rule was established to preserve Felix’s sanity.

Rule Number Three: Sylvain has to train with Felix at least once a day if he wants to keep this up. This rule was established for obvious reasons.

And that’s it, those are the only concrete rules. Felix reserves the right to add more rules whenever he pleases. He also reserves the right to tell Sylvain to fuck off whenever he pleases.

Establishing rules at all is, admittedly, engaging more with this foolishness than he’d ever planned to, but Sylvain is being unusually enthusiastic about keeping the matchmaking thing going. And it’s not—well, okay, it _is_ irritating, but it’s not the worst thing in the world. All that attention from Sylvain isn’t _bad_. As much as he’s often loathe to admit it, Felix actually likes hanging out with him, so if he has to occasionally rate passing strangers on their ‘smashability’ (Sylvain’s word, _not_ his) then so be it.

It does make studying with Sylvain difficult, though.

Note: studying alone with Sylvain is already difficult, because Felix hates studying and Sylvain doesn’t _need_ to study. Also, Sylvain is extremely distracting. And Felix doesn’t even mean that in a ‘Sylvain is Hot’ way, he means it in a ‘Sylvain is his best friend and also incapable of shutting the fuck up’ way. They’re good sparring partners (when Sylvain actually puts in the effort) and even better together on the field, but when it comes to something like studying, they tend to get sidetracked. Without the energy and focus of Ashe or Annette mediating things, their one-on-one study sessions usually end with them getting kicked out of the library after competing to see who could kick the other harder underneath the table, or something similarly idiotic.

Which is exactly what’s happened today, forcing them onto the courtyard to continue their work outside. At least the weather’s okay. Perfect temperature for Felix to attempt to study (read: stare disgruntledly at a book and absorb exactly zero information) and Sylvain to survey the monastery for any ‘potential bachelors.’

“What do you think about him?”

Felix follows Sylvain’s hand to a willowy blond walking past them, laughing loudly at something one of his friends has said. Very begrudgingly, Felix gives him a once over. Admittedly, the guy doesn’t have a bad face, but it’s perpetually obscured by his hair, which keeps falling into his eyes no matter how much he pushes it out of the way. He’s tall, sure—Sylvain’s height, probably—but lacking in any of his muscle mass.

Felix grimaces. “I think I could break him in half.”

Sylvain barks out a loud, surprised laugh. “Okay, okay, no twiggy guys, I gotcha.”

“That’s number three.”

“Man, Felix, you’re killing me with the quotas. I’m just trying to figure out your type! What about—hmm, oh, that guy!” Sylvain gestures towards a well-built brunet headed in the general direction of the training grounds. “He’s all... fight-y. Probably trains a lot. That’s—is that a turn on for you?”

Okay, _yeah,_ maybe it is, but the mere thought of discussing his ‘turn ons’ with Sylvain (who is one of them) makes Felix want to fling himself into the pond. He elbows Sylvain in the side, _hard_ , and directs his glare to Mr. Fight-y.

Huh. He really _is_ … fight-y, for lack of a better word. Looks tough. Probably uses a lance, judging by the way he carries himself, though he could just be a straight-up brawler. He’s broader than Sylvain but not as tall, and the hard set of his mouth is nothing like Sylvain’s usual grins—Felix couldn’t imagine this guy smiling even with a sword at his throat. He’s decent looking, but he’d be even more decent looking if his hair was messier like Sylvain’s, or if he carried himself with Sylvain’s carefree ease, or maybe if he just was Sylvain.

Ugh.

The comparisons keep popping up, unbidden. It’s annoying, because if Felix is being honest, most of the guys Sylvain’s pointed out haven’t been that objectionable. Hell, some of them were pretty attractive. But none of them are Sylvain, and Felix’s horny lizard brain is on an ‘Idiot Redhead or Bust!’ campaign that he’s hating more and more every second.

“He’s fine,” Felix grumbles, because he is, and also because Sylvain isn’t actually stupid and without some misdirection, sooner or later he’ll figure out that Felix’s ‘type’ is _him_.

“ _Fine?_ High praise, Felix. Now we’re getting somewhere!” Sylvain laughs, but it sounds a little sharp at the edges. Fake. Felix hates it when he gets like this, hates it when Sylvain fakes things with him, and hates even more that he doesn’t know _why_ he’s doing it. Sylvain just goes on though, nudging Felix’s arm and asking, “Why don’t you go over and say hi?”

“When have I _ever_ ‘went over and said hi’ to anyone?”

That earns an eye-roll, which is annoying, because eye-rolling is usually Felix’s thing. “Okay smartass, I know you hate pleasantries, but you’re gonna need to get used to them if you ever wanna get laid.”

“I—ugh, _Sylvain_ ,” Felix does not stammer. Talking about sex with Sylvain doesn’t fluster him at all, actually. He’s fine with this. “Is that all you ever think about?”

“No.” Sylvain almost looks hurt, but only for a second. The expression disappears in a flash as the corners of his mouth tug up into something wolfish, that shitty grin he gets when he knows he’s about to make a joke that Felix will hate but he’s telling it anyway. “Sometimes I think about food.”

Storming away in a fury is perhaps not the most mature response, but it’s one of the things Felix does best.

__________

Stable duty. _Again._

Curse Professor Byleth for repeatedly giving Felix this job when he hates horses—never mind the fact that he doesn’t even ride one. Make no mistake: Felix isn’t _afraid_ of horses, no matter how many times Sylvain throws that accusation at him. _Felix_ isn’t the problem, _horses_ are the problem, with their big teeth and knowing eyes and propensity for kicking. It’s truly a cruel twist of fate that all of Felix’s childhood friends are horse enthusiasts. Well, almost all of them. Felix can say a lot of things about Dimi—the Boar, but at least he isn’t a horse freak.

The one good thing about stable duty this week is that Felix is paired with Ingrid this time, not Sylvain. It’s not that they’ve had a fight or that Felix is avoiding him—he almost wishes that was the case. No, on the contrary: in spite of all of Sylvain’s matchmaking fuckery, their friendship has fallen into a comfortable rhythm and they’re spending more time together than they have in years. 

The problem is that the crush Felix was supposed to get over has decidedly _not_ gone away. It’s gotten worse. Way worse.

And of course, Sylvain doesn’t want him. He’s made that pretty obvious with the way he’s _actively_ trying to set him up with other people. Not that he has any clue about Felix’s crush. As a rule, Sylvain is surprisingly emotionally astute, but he seems to have a blind spot for Felix’s feelings for him—a blind spot that Felix is as grateful for as he is frustrated by.

The worst part is that he means well, in an incomprehensible, Sylvain-ish way. Little does he know that every guy he points out just reminds Felix of how much he wants him instead, how in deep he is already. It’s infuriating. Felix has never swept this angrily in his entire life.

“Did you say something to Sylvain?” Ingrid asks suddenly, barely looking up from the horse whose mane she’s brushing. Felix nearly drops his broom in surprise. What is she, a mind reader? Did he accidentally say something he was thinking about Sylvain out loud? Has Ingrid, in all her nosiness, caught wind of his crush? “About his habits, I mean.”

Oh, that. Felix suppresses a sigh of relief and goes back to sweeping, a little less forcefully this time.

“By habits, you mean—”

“The skirt chasing.”

“The skirt chasing,” Felix repeats. That’s certainly a word for it. Personally, he’d pick a harsher one. “No. Why?”

“Well, I haven’t had to convince anyone not to murder him this month, and you two have been hanging out a lot lately, so I was assuming you’d somehow persuaded him to clean up his act.”

Felix lets out a quick huff of air, something close to a laugh. “That would take a miracle. No, if anyone is going to get him to clean up his act, it’s you.” She’s the one who’s always on his case about his bad behavior, anyway.

Ingrid makes a face. “Oh please. He doesn’t listen to me. You, on the other hand…” she sighs, exasperation giving way to something dual parts wry and fond. “Goddess knows why.”

Does Sylvain really listen to him that much? It’s a strange thought, but the more Felix tries to wrap his head around it, the more it feels right. ‘Insatiable’ coming from Felix seemed to cut him deeper than any scolding from Ingrid ever did.

More recently, he’s been fastidious about following all the rules that Felix set up—including the one about training, which he was certain would be a deal-breaker for Sylvain. There’d even been a moment, early on, when Sylvain had stopped short and asked Felix, genuinely, _“Do you want me to drop this whole thing? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,”_ as if he could ever make Felix feel uncomfortable, as if he isn’t comfort incarnate. Felix (who is just as much of an idiot as he calls Sylvain) had grumbled that it was _fine_ and for Sylvain to _do what he wants_ and that had been it.

Felix keeps thinking about it though, trying to work out why Sylvain holds his opinion in such high regard. They’re friends, obviously, but something about it just feels—never mind. Felix doesn’t want to think about that right now.

More importantly: “He really hasn’t been dating this month?”

Ingrid chuckles, giving the mare she’s been tending to a light stroke on the nose. “If he has, I haven’t had to hear about it. Thank goodness.”

Now that’s interesting. It’s true that Sylvain hasn’t mentioned any girlfriends recently, but Felix had been assuming that Sylvain was continuing his exploits and just not telling him about them. Knowing that Sylvain’s essentially paused his love-life so that he can focus all his energy on Felix is. Hm. Well, that’s another thing Felix isn’t in the mood to unpack right now.

Ingrid turns towards Felix then, smiling and straightening up in the way that she does when she’s about to pay him a compliment and be awkward about it. The awkwardness isn’t completely her fault, they just know each other too well and Ingrid’s compliments are always so formal. She’s like a sister to him, they _know_ they care for each other. Saying it out loud feels weird.

“I’m glad you two have been spending so much time together. And not just because you’re making my life easier.” Felix snorts at that and the sound makes Ingrid relax a bit, her smile going soft, bordering on sentimental. “I think we’re all better when we’re together.”

_We’re all better when we’re together_. All.

Felix doesn’t need to ask for clarification to know that _all_ means the four of them, their fucked up little quartet of childhood memories and shared trauma. The four of them, who’ve changed so much and not at all. If Ingrid said something like that at the beginning of the year, when they’d first gotten to school, Felix would have told her she was dead wrong. But now, well—

He can’t bring himself to disagree.

__________

Felix doesn’t know what to think about his conversation with Ingrid, so he trains about it.

Maybe someday he’ll have to figure out another way to process his emotions, but today is not that day. Today, Felix has a sword and he’ll swing it around like nobody’s fucking business until any and all complex _feelings_ that he may or may not have are firmly out of his head. Take that, coping.

Felix is about two demolished training dummies away from clearheaded serenity when he hears someone approaching behind him. It’s a bad move, trying to sneak up on Felix when he’s got a weapon in his hand. It’s a bad move to sneak up on Felix at all, actually.

He turns quick on his heel, something sharp on the tip of his tongue for whichever classmate it is that’s decided to interrupt him, but quickly finds himself face to face with a student he doesn’t know. This isn’t anyone in his class. It’s just… some guy. Smiling at him, expectantly.

“Hey,” says the guy.

“What,” says Felix.

That doesn’t seem to be the response he was looking for. The guy shifts on his feet, still smiling, but a bit less sure. “Oh, nothing, I just—see you around here a lot.”

Ah, so he’s an idiot.

“It’s the training grounds,” Felix says, slow and measured. “I come here to train.”

The guy laughs awkwardly, as though Felix has said some funny anecdote and not just stated the obvious. Ah, so he’s an even bigger idiot than Felix initially thought.

“Me too. I’m Liam,” the guy says. Felix isn’t going to remember his name. Oh shit, it’s been five seconds and he’s already forgotten it. _What letter did it begin with? M, maybe? Or was it—_ “You have good form.”

Felix knows that. He doesn’t need this guy to tell him that. “Thanks,” he says. “Yours needs work.”

(Honestly, Felix hasn’t been paying enough attention to this guy to know that for sure. He’s never seen whoever-he-is in his life, never mind seen him fight. But he gives off that vibe.)

Another awkward chuckle. “Maybe you could give me some tips.”

Felix gives him an assessing look, eyes narrowing when he notices the practice axe in his hand. “You’re not a swordsman.”

More laughter, louder this time, like Felix is the one who’s slow on the uptake, like there’s a joke he’s just not getting. This guy laughs too much. Funny—Sylvain laughs a lot, but it doesn’t bother Felix. Or, well, it does bother him, but in a different way.

When he’s done having his little giggle-fest, the guy clears his throat and takes a step closer, a bit too close for Felix’s liking.

“No, I’m not. But I’ve got some experience in,” he wets his lips, gives a little lopsided smirk, “swordplay.”

Oh. They’re not _really_ talking about swords, are they?

For a moment, Felix is vaguely disappointed, and then he’s something else. Intrigued, maybe? People don’t flirt with him often, or at all usually. It’s flattering, he guesses, being wanted so openly.

Felix assessed him before but now he’s assessing him again, differently this time. The guy is fine-looking; boringly handsome and forgettable but not entirely unappealing. He isn’t Sylvain-ish at all, but maybe that’s a good thing. He’s into Felix, for starters, which is something Sylvain is not and never will be. What’s-his-face hasn’t been much for stimulating conversation thus far, but maybe he’ll get better the more Felix talks to him. Maybe they won’t have to do much talking at all.

To his own dull surprise, Felix is considering it—whatever it is this guy’s offering. It could be a good distraction. Maybe if he just had a fling with someone else, even if it didn’t mean anything, he’d stop fixating on this hopeless crush. It’d be nice to be able to hang out with Sylvain without thinking about kissing him all the time.

The moment of consideration is short. As soon as he’s almost convinced himself to pursue something with this stranger, Felix sours on the idea. This isn’t how he solves his problems; he’s not _Sylvain_. That’s a bitter, unfair thought, but he thinks it anyway.

Felix is about to say something to the guy, to tell him to fuck off, probably, when a familiar weight drops around his shoulders and the words die on his tongue. _Of course_ Sylvain shows up now, big and oblivious and draping his arm around Felix like it’s the easiest thing in the world. 

“Hey, Fe! I was looking all over for you,” Sylvain grins down at Felix, who continues to be stunned into silence because _wow,_ Sylvain hasn’t called him that in years. The look on his face shifts as he returns his attention to the guy with the axe. “Who’s your new friend?”

Huh. Sylvain is acting weird.

Considering how long they’ve known each other, Felix is well acquainted with Sylvain’s myriad of smiles—the fake and the real, what they all mean. The one he’s currently wearing is one of the falsest Felix has ever seen him pull. It’s still civil, but the set of his jaw is reminiscent of the way he gets when he talks to someone he really doesn’t like. This is a smile he’d reserve for someone like _Lorenz_. What did this random guy do to piss Sylvain off so much? Have they met before?

Felix watches as the guy’s eyes dart from him to Sylvain to Sylvain’s arm draped around his shoulders, evaluating… something. Whatever he sees makes him deflate a bit, and he lets out a short sigh before shaking his head.

“I was just leaving. I’ll see you around, uh,” he trails off, and Felix realizes he never gave this guy his name. He’s not sure he wants to.

He does anyway, though. Contrary to popular belief, even he’s got limits to his rudeness.

“Felix,” he says, quick and curt. 

“Sylvain,” Sylvain adds sunnily, though no one asked him to. “We’ll be seeing you.”

They stand in silence for an exceedingly long minute, just watching the guy walk away, leaving them alone on the training grounds.

Though whoever-he-was is far enough now that they don’t have to whisper, Sylvain keeps his voice low, leaning towards Felix as he talks, close enough that his breath ghosts hot against Felix’s ear. “What about that guy? He liked you.”

Felix shivers at the sensation of it—all of it, the weight of Sylvain’s arm around him, the velvet rumble of his voice, the closeness of his mouth—and somehow, finally remembers to shove him off. “He’s not my type.”

“Ah, Felix’s elusive ‘type,’” Sylvain says, quiet and thoughtful. He shakes his head, then chuckles at Felix, more like himself than before. “It’s a shame you weren’t into him. My timing was perfect! I was so ready to wingman for you.”

Is that what that was? It didn’t seem like it. Felix isn’t sure _what_ to call it, but he’s seen Sylvain when he tries to talk to girls for Dimitri and this was something else entirely.

“Enough,” Felix snaps, louder than he’d even expected. More than anything, he’s confused, which means he’s angry. With him, everything gets filtered through some level of anger. “Why are you so fixated on being my—my ‘wingman,’ or whatever?”

“Well, I figured you could use the help.” The face Felix makes must be truly terrifying because Sylvain starts scrambling, tripping over his words as he backtracks, “I mean! I just thought you might be nervous about talking to someone you don’t know.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, why are you so invested in getting me— _involved_ with someone?”

Sylvain falters. For a moment, he’s an open book, pages turning wildly as his face shifts into something confused, something vulnerable. Felix realizes with sudden, startling clarity that Sylvain probably doesn’t know the answer to that question himself. Then he brightens, a book snapped shut, perfectly chipper and absolutely full of shit. “Just trying to help out a friend. You seem like you could use some relaxation.”

In Sylvain-speak, relaxation means relaxation, but it also means sex. Felix wants to throw a rock at his head.

“I don’t need to _relax_ ,” he shouts, which probably doesn’t help his case, but whatever. “And I’m not nervous about talking to people I don’t know. I just don’t want to.”

Sylvain sighs, dropping the false smile. “I don’t get it. You could have anyone you wanted, if you just tried.”

Felix has genuinely no idea what that’s supposed to mean.

Warily, he asks, “What makes you think that?”

“Come on, you know why.”

“I don’t.”

“Felix.”

He’s losing his patience. “What are you talking about?”

Strangely enough, Sylvain is losing his too. “I mean—you _know_ —Felix, you have to know what you look like.”

This is absurd. Sylvain plays dumb a lot, but Felix has to draw the line somewhere. “Of course I know what I look like! I own a mirror, you dolt. I fail to understand what that has to do with anything.”

Sylvain stares at him. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“Obviously I don’t,” Felix says through his teeth, “or I wouldn’t keep asking you.”

“You’re _hot_ , Felix! You’re really hot!” Sylvain practically yells. He actually sounds mad about it. There’s a beat of complete silence, before he realizes what he just said. “I mean—"

Felix blinks. “You think I’m hot?”

Sylvain blinks back at him. “Well. Um, yeah?” He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly bashful. “You’re objectively very attractive. Objectively.”

Did Felix get hit in the head at some point? He must have gotten hit in the head. He must be passed out on the training grounds, dreaming this bizarre dream. There’s no way this is really happening.

Well, if it is a dream, better make the most of it.

“So, _objectively_ ,” Felix smirks and Sylvain cringes and _holy shit_ , this _is_ happening, “you think I’m hot.”

Sylvain shrugs, quick and tense. “Everyone thinks you’re hot.”

“What’s hot about me?”

“Felix!” Sylvain blushes, he _actually_ blushes, and it’s the most satisfying expression in the world. Maybe Felix is being a dick by pressing the issue, but it’s so rare to see Sylvain flustered—and over _him_ , of all things—that he can’t resist.

“You’re the one who said it.”

Sylvain opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. Felix wants to live in this moment forever.

“You just—are, okay?” Sylvain flits his gaze around the training grounds, looking anywhere that isn’t Felix’s face. He takes a deep breath, peeks over at Felix for a second, and then starts, haltingly, “You, um. You have a good face. I mean, you’ve got good features. Your eyes are, uh, your eyes are pretty. And you have a cute nose.”

“I have a cute nose?” Felix mumbles, the bravado from before leaving his body as quickly as it came. He should probably feel incensed at being referred to as _cute_ in any capacity, but instead it’s just—well. He’s doesn’t hate it. 

“Anyone could tell you that,” Sylvain waves a hand dismissively, as though this is a commonly held opinion, as though scholars have spent years writing books on Felix’s nose and it’s purported cuteness.

He looks at Felix, then— _really_ looks at him—and goes on. “Your hair is nice. It’s shiny and it looks,” he swallows, averts his eyes, “ _soft._ And, well, let’s just say that it’s obvious you train a lot, because you’re really—” Sylvain breaks off suddenly, which is unfortunate, because Felix would very much like to know what word he was going to say next. His face has gone as red as his hair, and he scrubs a hand over it, letting out a soft groan. “Okay. Ooooo-kay. I’m gonna shut up now. But you get my point.”

Felix vehemently does _not_ get his point, but it’s just as well that Sylvain stops there, because if he says anything else Felix will die on the spot. 

Shit. Teasing Sylvain backfired spectacularly, because while this is the most embarrassed Felix has ever seen him, his own face is so warm that he’s liable to burst into flames any second now. Bastard. Damn Sylvain, and damn Felix’s idiotic, mushy feelings about him. He wasn’t even being smooth just then! That confession, or whatever it was, was barely coherent. So why is Felix’s heart still racing?

Then again, maybe the awkwardness _is_ why.

Felix has never heard Sylvain compliment someone less eloquently, which means these aren’t lines, which means he’s probably being genuine. Which means—

Sylvain clears his throat. Felix clears his throat back at him. They keep going like this for about a minute, and it is the single most humiliating minute of Felix’s life.

Finally, Felix is the one to break their stalemate. “Um. Thanks.” He means to say it gruffly but the words come out soft, too sincere for his liking. Then, before he can stop himself, he adds, “You’re not so bad yourself. Idiot.”

Felix can feel Sylvain gaping at him, but he doesn’t look to check his expression because that’s when he starts running. Literally running. Felix can’t even play it off like he was storming out, he just fled. 

Perhaps out of mutual mortification, they don’t talk about it. Felix is dreading Sylvain bringing it up when they see each other in the dining hall the next day, waiting for him to turn it all into a joke, but he doesn’t. Sylvain stops trying to set him up with other guys, which definitely means _something_ , but Felix doesn’t ask him why. Days turn into weeks turn into months and they still don’t talk about it, just keep treading on unsteady ground, pretending their friendship is normal when there’s been an unmistakable shift.

Then a war starts and they don’t have time to talk about it, even if they wanted to.

__________

If there’s one thing Felix misses about the damn war, it’s being able to see Sylvain every day.

They’ve been at peace for about a year now, but for them, peace is just as busy as wartime—if not busier. The only big difference is that this brand of busy doesn’t involve nearly getting stabbed to death. Usually. Diplomacy gets intense sometimes.

It’s fine, though. Everything’s fine, because Sylvain’s just returned from a month in Sreng for diplomatic meetings and a grueling two weeks in Gautier to appease his father. Everything is more than fine, actually, because Sylvain barely gets two feet in the door before he and Felix are on each other, fervent and desperate and pathetically in love. Scratch that, everything is _spectacular_ because Sylvain has got Felix pinned to the wall in the middle of his foyer, kissing him like a man possessed.

They’re lucky that Felix doesn’t have a lot of servants, and luckier still that the sparse staff he does have know to give the two of them a wide berth when Sylvain comes to visit.

It’s silly, going back and forth like this between their estates. Sylvain should just move here, conduct his business from Fraldarius. Better yet, they should just combine their territories and make everything easier. Really, they should stop wasting their time and just get married.

…That’s a conversation for another day. Or maybe today, if Felix is feeling bold enough. But not right now.

Right now, Sylvain is trailing searing kisses down Felix’s neck, pausing every so often in his descent to mouth something soft and nonsensical against his skin. Mostly, it’s some variation of _‘I missed you’_ or _‘I love you,’_ but Felix picks out a _‘you’re gorgeous’_ and a memory comes flooding back to him—of that day at the training grounds, of everything leading up to it.

“Do you remember,” Felix blurts, then stops to make a very undignified noise as Sylvain drags his teeth across what is undoubtably going to be a very noticeable hickey. Bastard. It’s okay, though; Felix will get him back. He tries again, “Do you remember back in school, when you kept trying to wingman for me?”

Sylvain freezes. Oh, he definitely remembers.

“Yes,” he presses a tentative kiss to the underside of Felix’s jaw, almost apologetic. “I was hoping you didn’t.”

Then he’s back to business. His business being: clumsily attempting to undress Felix with one hand while shamelessly grabbing his ass with the other. Trying to distract him, huh? Well, that’s too bad—for once, Felix is feeling _chatty_. Consider it payback for all the times Sylvain has insisted on talking through sex.

“How could I— _ah_ —forget? You pestered me about it for months.”

Sylvain’s chuckle is a short puff of warm air against Felix’s collarbone. “Goddess, I was so annoying back then.”

“Still are,” Felix says, without any heat. He cards a hand through Sylvain’s russet hair, still damp with the melted snow he’s tracked inside. The movement is tender, easy. It’s strange, thinking back to a time when Sylvain seemed so out of his reach. “Why were you so obsessed with that?”

With a deep sigh, Sylvain reluctantly removes his mouth from Felix and straightens up, looking sheepish. “Okay, honestly? I was just starting to realize I had feelings for you and I wasn’t handling them… gracefully. It was like, Denial City, population: me. Thought I’d stop thinking about you so much if you were with someone else.”

Felix’s hand trails down from Sylvain’s hair to cup his face, thumbing absentminded patterns against the light stubble that’s been growing during his time away. “That was foolish of you.”

“Yeah, it was,” Sylvain brings his hand up over Felix’s, gently holding it in place, and turns his head to kiss Felix’s palm. Then he laughs, a little self-deprecating. “But hey, it’s not like I had a chance anyway! You didn’t want me back then.”

Okay, _what_?

“Yes I did.” It was obvious. If Sylvain didn’t get it back then, he has to understand it in hindsight, right?

Sylvain does not understand. “What? No way.”

The fool really doesn’t believe it, does he?

“I did,” Felix insists, because he means it, because he needs Sylvain to know how much he means it. “I always wanted you, you idiot, don’t you get that by now?”

Saying that out loud should feel like a weakness, like he’s giving something up. But it doesn’t. It’s just the truth. His whole life, nobody smiled at Felix like Sylvain did. And, he’s been realizing, Sylvain doesn’t smile at anybody the way he smiles at Felix.

“You _always_ —“ The words stumble out of him wonderingly, then stop short, overwhelmed. It’s funny that this is what makes him bashful. Since they’ve gotten together, Sylvain has had no problem expressing his feelings towards Felix (be they sweet, heartfelt, or downright obscene), but every time Felix returns the sentiment it’s enough to turn him into a blushing mess. “Wait, but you said you weren’t interested in anybody!”

“I wasn’t interested in _anybody,_ ” Felix wills his face not to heat, but true to form, it pays him no mind. “I was interested in you.”

“ _Felix_ ,” Sylvain shoves his face into the junction where Felix’s shoulder meets his neck, but it’s not to kiss him this time, just to hide. “You can’t just say that!”

“You’ve literally been inside of me,” Felix pauses while Sylvain lets out a choked, flustered laugh. The man really can’t take what he dishes out, can he? “I think you can handle me telling you I like you.”

Sylvain makes another strangled, embarrassed noise into Felix’s shoulder, but when he pulls back he’s beaming, flushed and elated and brighter than the sun.

“You make me so fucking happy. You know that, right?”

Felix does. He knows it because he feels the same.

“Sap,” he says, utterly defanged, and pulls Sylvain down to give him a proper kiss. 

“For the record,” Sylvain smiles against his mouth, “I still think you’re hot.”

Felix laughs. “Glad to know I’ve still got it.”

**Author's Note:**

> i had a lot of fun working on this, and i hope you had fun reading it! these two have haunted and vexed me for MONTHS, and they continue to haunt and vex me. i'm still getting the hang of writing them, but i'd love to revisit these two/this series with some more stuff in the future!
> 
> title is from love on top, which has absolutely nothing to do with this fic except that i listened to it constantly while writing! 
> 
> thank you so much for reading!!


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